You were my poem


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You were my poem.
You were in the words that slipped through my fingers
And onto a blank page.
You were my free verse
because only the best things are free and without structure.
You were my prose
Delicately painting a picture of forever in my head
That would last long after I set the piece down.
Even though you have left
You are still my poem.
You are the unfinished ideas
And forgotten words
You are the theme that was a little too forced.
You are in the poem somewhere in the middle of my notebook
That I can’t figure out how to end

Finding the sound of anticipation again


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He had left three months ago.
And it had taken up until today
For her to catch her breath again.
She walked to the edge of the cliff again.
The salty breeze hit her and filled her lungs.
And the wind danced around her head and pulled more hair out of her braid.
She could see their favorite spot from where she stood
And the dark blue and purple clouds were coming over the waves,
Calling them to ride taller and faster.
She closed her eyes and listened.
It had been so long since she had heard it,
She needed to hear it again.
And there it was,
The stillness between the waves,
The sound of anticipation.
The sound of a new beginning
She wasn’t sure if it would bring pain and loneliness.
Or something completely different
But she wanted it
The sound of something new
The sound of something beginning

My dreams have outgrown me


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Silly little girl,
Always searching.
Never knowing what you’re looking for,
But always searching for it.
Silly little girl.
Chasing that silly little dream,
As if it were still possible.
Silly little girl,
Talent fades,
And in this world it’s who you know that matters,
Not how much you
Love what you do.
Silly little girl,
It’s time to grow up.
Put down that silly little dream,
And pick up something more suitable for you.
I hear they’re always looking
for more high school English teachers.

I will choose to listen to my ever steady heartbeat instead


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She took a deep breath and looked around
The now half-empty room.
He had officially left her,
And taken every trace of him
And their memories with him.
Although her mind screamed,
“I’m lifeless, I’m nothing,
My heart, my love is gone”
Before it could say another word,
Her heart beat against her chest
Hard and strong and steady,
“I am still here. I am still strong.
I am still alive.”

Its been two days and I still can’t think of anything to write


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To be empty in the mind but full in the heart is a torturous experience.
I am constantly erasing, deleting, and scribbling out thoughts that aren’t quite good enough.
I want to bring life to characters and watch them grow through the trials and tribulations.

I want to think of more than three damn mediocre sentences.

Ten simple steps to learn how to love yourself.


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Step one:
Let the fact sink in that you are a human. Realize that this both extraordinary and incredibly dull. You cannot do it all, so don’t pretend like you can. Know your limits. Don’t waste time hating yourself because you think you should be doing more.

Step two:
Stop mistaking fear of vulnerability for independence. God has made 7.046 billion people and counting. There is no possible way that he intended you to walk on the earth and face hardships alone. Let someone know you are struggling to love yourself, to move on from him, to find peace, and let them walk down that road with you.

Step three:
When you wake up, look at yourself in the mirror. Study yourself in your most rawest form. The tangled waves and squinting eyes that only a select few will see. Appreciate this rare picture of yourself for a few minutes before straightening up the tangles.

Step four:
Run. When the world feels like too much and your problems are weighing down on you go on a run. Sprint away from every pressing problem and keep doing so until you are too exhausted to think about them. The simple act of running can be extremely therapeutic in clearing your mind and it will also exercise the young muscles that have aching to be pushed to their limit. Surprise yourself at how fast and how far you can run, everyone underestimates themselves, prove yourself wrong.

Step five:
When running isn’t enough, travel.See something spectacular that will take your breath away. Or witness something that is a tragedy and let it both remind you of the blessings in your life and let it inspire you to help someone in any way that you can.

Step six:
Cry. Cry for six minutes or six hours. Whatever it takes to get the pent-up pain out of your system. Cry about the boy that left you your senior year of high school or cry about getting fired from your job three weeks ago. It’s not a sign of weakness to cry, so get the thought out of your head and cry until every painful memory has been rightly mourned over.

Step seven:
Look up at the stars. Let the crisp night air keep you awake as you take in the wide vastness of this earth. Listen to your favorite music or listen to the music of the earth around you. Let yourself feel small.

Step eight:
Plant a garden. Plant every single daisy that you could find at Lowes. Plant them everywhere.Take all day and then take one day more. As you watch the flowers both big and small grow at different paces remember that humans are the same.

Step nine:
Wake up before the sun. Sit outside and look at the garden that you built as you sip your bitter coffee. Do this to remind yourself even with all the heartaches in your life, you can make beautiful things and your life is truly beautiful in these still and quiet moments.

Step ten:
Finally, find yourself so that you can completely lose yourself. Find the thing that you love, find the thing that is so deeply apart of you that you had to dig for years to discover it. And once you find it, throw everything you have into it. Drown in the thing that reminds you that not all of life is ugly, and how to take advantage of the beauty around you. Never let go of the thing that reminds you that you are a beautiful, messy, human being.

You would be more effective than my morning cup of coffee


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Mornings and I have never been the best of friends.
He always greets me with
Tangled hair, blurry eyes, and a raspy voice.
I fight off the morning with bitter coffee and hot oatmeal
The monotonous routine helps me survive the mornings grip,
But yesterday,
When my routine was ruined
And I was on my second cup of coffee,
You walked in with a smile on your face,
That woke me up faster
Than the darkest roast anyone could brew.
“Happy morning!”
You greeted me-
Without the slightest hint of sarcasm.
And it was then I decided
That mornings couldn’t possibly be so horrible
If you became part of the routine.

“It’s the little things,” God told me. “Look out for the little things”


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“It’s sunshine kissing a bare shoulder,
Wind teasing the ends of your hair
A call from someone whom your heart misses,
And a smile from a stranger.

It’s the sigh that accompanies
Cup of tea after a long day
And whispered words on an early morning
Coffee date at the kitchen table.

It’s the small daisy growing out of the sidewalk cracks
When you feel the weight of the busy world around you.

It’s the way the ocean both thrills and terrifies you with its power,
And the way the quiet mountains still your anxieties.

It’s the little things, my love,
Look for me in the little things.”

I will one day believe that I am a writer


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Since middle school I have doubted all
the potential in myself.
I have tried to swallow the bitter pill
that I “just might not be cut out to be a writer”
At what point did I decide
that I could only have a minimum amount of talent?
Why is it an unfathomable thought
that I can be good at something?
When did I decide that nothing I could conjure up
Would be a worthwhile read?
I have ignored the fact that my fingers are restless
until they produce the words in my mind
that only have a voice on a silent blank page.
I dismiss the fact that instead of
Doodling in my notes I
Fill the margin with a poem
About the boy who told me
That I will one day be a great writer.
I have never been eloquent in my speech,
I speak in whispers and
Stumble over three word sentences.
But writing is my shout into
This loud world.
Writing has consistently
Revealed to me
Who I am,
Where I am at.
Writing is not the window to my soul
But the map and tourist manual
Packed into one.
And on that map,
All roads lead to one central location,
One simple sign that reads:
You are here
In the middle of
This writer’s beating heart.


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